The Death Eater's Grave
by Padfootwolfboy
Summary: Sirius confronts Peter about the deaths of Lily and James. Rated PG13 just in case. (*not a slash [unfortunately…]*) Please read and review.


Sirius confronts Pettigrew about Lily and James Potter's deaths… Title really does explain it all. Rated PG13 just in case. (*not a slash [unfortunately…]*) Please read and respond. 

Disclaimer: Characters not mine. Never was mine. Never will be mine. Blah blah. J.K. Rowling's.   

He squeezed the black handlebars more fiercely as he flew threw the chilled night air. White wisps of clouds glowed with the light of the full yellow moon.  It would usually remind him that his friend Remus Lupin was now growing hair and splitting bones as his transformation took place, but not tonight. Not tonight of all nights. Stars danced carelessly in the large bubbling soup of midnight blue that was the sky. They neither saw nor cared about the events that were playing out far below on the earth. A quick silent breeze sent a chill up his back and he pushed the large black and silver motorcycle he was riding further into the night. 

His face was pale under the translucent moonlight. It was frozen in an expression of passionate resolve, although underneath a pang of fury grew more fervent. Yet there was also a new emotion, one that did not surface very often. A cold liquid was oozing its away around his brain, locking it in places so that only one thought would whisper over and over again. _They're dead… dead… dead…_ It echoed throughout his mind. He shoved the thought back down as his blood began to boil. He was not allowed to the satisfaction of thinking, not tonight. Tonight he needed to be somewhere.

A little almost indistinguishable cylinder of smoke rose in the distance. His heart gave an unpleasant lurch and his muscles tightened. A shrill voice shrieked in his mind. He paused to swallow down the feeling. He would not let it distract him. He could not afford it. The bike roared loudly as he slammed his foot into the accelerator, directly pointed at the point at which the smoke rose. The stench of smoke and ash flared at his nostrils. A tiny sneeze escaped him as he propelled the bike into a steep dive. It soared through the icy tufts of silvery cloud, tingling the skin on his bare arms and face. The wheels hit the black pavement with a dull thud and he looked up into the golden lamplight.

He was young. Glossy black hair was pulled back away from his face in a short ponytail that was lost in somewhere under the collar of his maroon red, short-sleeved polo shirt, which was opened in the front to reveal a stained gray T-shirt. An oily hand had been wiped across the front of it. His face was strong and handsome, with swirling bluish-gray eyes, which sparkled roguishly. A tight anguished smirk was pulled tightly over his thin lips. The motor quieted as he stepped over its large body. He was tall and quite muscular, perfectly capable of handling such a sizeable machine. The light flashed menacingly in his eyes, causing him to bring one of his hands over his face as he walked out of the light. He knew it was dangerous to act so conspicuous as he was, especially with all the muggles that inhabited the area, but this was too important for him to care.

As he approached the dawning of the light and stepped into the quiet shadows, a gasp betook his breath. The house, which he now stood in front of, had been reduced to a smoldering pile of cinders. Debris lay scattered around his feet. A small flame was still flickering in the grass along the side of the fence. The gate lay ajar. He stepped cautiously through to the yard, which was dotted with more half burnt objects. His foot accidentally kicked something in the blue grass. It rattled. He slowly bent down and grasped the thing in his fingers. It was a baby's rattle. Slowly, a small stinging tear rolled down his feverish cheeks. 

Rage had filled his blood. Rage. Hatred. It was all consuming. He couldn't take one wisp of air into his lungs without feeling the stinging, senile pain that ripped through his soul and scorched the back of his eyes. _It was Pettigrew! _It was seared into his mind, uncontrollably eating away at him. Everything that was happening was a blur to him. _Pettigrew_ was the only thing he cared about. 

The street was filled with mindless citizens, wandering around through their normal daily routine, stopping here and there at a random store. At first only one noticed the man, cloaked in dirt tan robes, stumbling, petrified, out into the middle of the street. In his hand he clutched a frail strip of wood.  More people turned away from the impulse of buying to watch as another man, fuming with rage, also griping a thin cylinder of wood, stalked him. At least he looked a tad more average, even though his gray tee shirt was stained and the brownish corduroy pants he was wearing were tattered. His face was frazzled as well as his hair, which flew out behind him like a winged cape to a madman. 

"Pettigrew!" he roared, stopping the smaller man in his tracks.  The crowd that had gathered quieted.

Pettigrew, that obviously being his name, slowly turned around. His face was pale and ashen. He looked cold, frightened and somber, though not from remorse. He was tired and wary. "Yes, Sirius?" he asked softly, looking at the ragged man across the ashy pavement from him. 

Sirius didn't reply, but stood there for a moment, panting, staring cold-blooded daggers at Pettigrew. His shoulders were arched and his forehead creased, looking ready as if to battle. "Why?" he finally gasped, dropping his arms and relaxing his face. It was now how apparent the vexation from lack of sleep and burden of anger had taken on him. He looked very old and very weak standing there, begging his once friend to explain his actions. "How could you do such a thing?" he wheezed.  

Yet Pettigrew knew looks were deceiving, and that Sirius was not old and not weak. He remembered this as he answered him. "How could I what?" he questioned innocently. 

The overwhelming ire caught up again with Sirius. "You are responsible for Lily and James Potter's deaths!" he roared, brandishing his wand out in front of him. Several orange sparks flew in his opponent's direction making the crowd gasp. Sirius ignored it.

"No, I'm not," he responded. Sirius's mouth dropped and his eyes shone with an unbridled fury. 

"How dare you say that…" he cautioned.

"But I'm not, my dearest Padfoot. You are." Pettigrew let a slight smile slip over his lips. "You were their secret keeper."

"I'll kill you, you little rat!" he bellowed irately at him, shooting now green and blue sparks from his wand. "You! You—a devil's advocate! A Death Eater by any other right! Well now you pay!" He aimed his wand at the ground on the sides Pettigrew's feet. The pavement shot up, high above the heads of the audience gathered, and landed on the top of an abandon fruit cart. The city's sewer system was revealed from beneath. "Where you stand is now your grave!" He pointed the end of the wand at Pettigrew. "Go and join the other rats down in the sewer where you belong!"

He was about to say the killing charm, all sanity at that moment washed away by his wrath and grief, when Pettigrew grinned. An actual grin of a Cheshire cat peeled slowly across his colorless face.  "I'd be more than happy to, Sirius," he whispered under his breath so that no one could hear. "Here lies the grave of your Death Eater." 

With that, a bright light consumed the area, like an explosion had just gone off. Sirius was thrown several feet back, the white light barring out any thought or visual. He tried to peer through its thickness but to no avail. Slowly it condensed to a small, hazy, flickering purplish-black light before dying out all together. When Sirius opened his eyes to see, Muggle bodies lay all around him, along with the remains of the street. Chunks of debris the size of cars were stacked on top of each other at the storefronts. People were screaming. And there was no sign of Pettigrew, except for, possibly, a finger. 

A/N: Hmm. So what'd ya think? Kind of gruesome in my mind, but since my mind never consults me about what I think before it decides to write something—I suppose I will have to deal with it. You know the drill now: REVIEW!


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